had already taken seats. The deputy who delivered her indicated that she was to take a chair on the opposite side of the table from us. “Please don’t touch the prisoner,” she instructed.
I saw Myriam shiver.
“Hello, dear,” I said. “I hope it’s all right with you that I’ve come to visit.”
She muttered something and nodded. I’d expected that she’d be dressed in some sort of prison garb, but she wore gray slacks, a pale blue sweatshirt, and sneakers.
O’Connor took his seat and said, “Mrs. Fletcher asked me for permission to see you, Myriam. I was sure that you’d agree to it.”
Another nod from her.
“When you visited me at my house,” I said, “you said that you needed some support. Well, that’s why I’m here. Are they treating you all right?”
“They don’t beat me, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s good to hear,” said O’Connor through a forced laugh.
Until that moment, Myriam appeared to have been in a fugue state. She suddenly came forward in her chair and exclaimed to me, “I didn’t kill Josh! You have to believe me.”
Before I could reply, O’Connor leaned in and said, “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher knows that you’re innocent. What’s important is that we convince a jury.”
His words caused her to shake. She sat back, folded her arms about herself, and sniffled. “A jury?” she said. “A trial?” She came forward again. “I don’t want that. I don’t deserve that. I didn’t kill anyone. Why won’t they let me out? What’s happening with my children? No one will tell me anything.”
I began to question my decision to visit. Rather than contribute comfort and support, my presence seemed to be upsetting her. I shifted in my chair and pondered how to leave gracefully.
“You have to keep up your spirits, Myriam,” O’Connor said, “stay optimistic. I know it’s hard for you to do that sitting here in jail, but it’s important. I already explained that the courts are closed and until they open, you can’t be officially charged and we can’t ask for bail. But I have confidence we’ll have you out of here soon. I’ve only just started putting together your case and—”
“And what do you know about putting together a murder case?” she growled, her expression stern.
I watched O’Connor’s face. If her pointed question stung him, it didn’t show. He smiled easily and said, “Don’t you worry. I know my job. But as I’ve told you, anytime you want to bring in another lawyer, all you have to do is let me know. Until then, if you’ll write down your questions”—he slid a piece of paper and a pen in front of her—“I’ll do my best to find the answers for you.”
Myriam looked at the blank sheet and sighed. She picked up the pen and wrote “1” and put a circle around it. Then she wrote “Children?” Tears filled her eyes and she put down the pen to press them away with her fingers. A gamut of emotions raced across her face as she scribbled on the page. Finally, she pulled into herself and seemed to shrivel in the chair. “I don’t know what to do,” she said softly.
“My best advice at this juncture,” said O’Connor, “is to keep that chin up and think positive thoughts. Being incarcerated isn’t pleasant. I know that. But it’s early in the investigation. I’m bringing in a private investigator tomorrow to work on your behalf. He’s top-notch. And with friends like Mrs. Fletcher—and you have legions of friends and supporters, I’m sure—things will work out for you.” He pulled her paper away, folded it in quarters, and tucked it in his breast pocket.
I forced myself to participate in the conversation. “Myriam, is there anyone you’d like me to call for you? Do you have what you need here? Can I bring you anything? Toiletries? Something to read? I can check with Sheriff Metzger as to what’s allowed.”
She answered each question with a nod—no, yes, no, no, no—as if too exhausted to talk.
There
I saw Myriam shiver.
“Hello, dear,” I said. “I hope it’s all right with you that I’ve come to visit.”
She muttered something and nodded. I’d expected that she’d be dressed in some sort of prison garb, but she wore gray slacks, a pale blue sweatshirt, and sneakers.
O’Connor took his seat and said, “Mrs. Fletcher asked me for permission to see you, Myriam. I was sure that you’d agree to it.”
Another nod from her.
“When you visited me at my house,” I said, “you said that you needed some support. Well, that’s why I’m here. Are they treating you all right?”
“They don’t beat me, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s good to hear,” said O’Connor through a forced laugh.
Until that moment, Myriam appeared to have been in a fugue state. She suddenly came forward in her chair and exclaimed to me, “I didn’t kill Josh! You have to believe me.”
Before I could reply, O’Connor leaned in and said, “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher knows that you’re innocent. What’s important is that we convince a jury.”
His words caused her to shake. She sat back, folded her arms about herself, and sniffled. “A jury?” she said. “A trial?” She came forward again. “I don’t want that. I don’t deserve that. I didn’t kill anyone. Why won’t they let me out? What’s happening with my children? No one will tell me anything.”
I began to question my decision to visit. Rather than contribute comfort and support, my presence seemed to be upsetting her. I shifted in my chair and pondered how to leave gracefully.
“You have to keep up your spirits, Myriam,” O’Connor said, “stay optimistic. I know it’s hard for you to do that sitting here in jail, but it’s important. I already explained that the courts are closed and until they open, you can’t be officially charged and we can’t ask for bail. But I have confidence we’ll have you out of here soon. I’ve only just started putting together your case and—”
“And what do you know about putting together a murder case?” she growled, her expression stern.
I watched O’Connor’s face. If her pointed question stung him, it didn’t show. He smiled easily and said, “Don’t you worry. I know my job. But as I’ve told you, anytime you want to bring in another lawyer, all you have to do is let me know. Until then, if you’ll write down your questions”—he slid a piece of paper and a pen in front of her—“I’ll do my best to find the answers for you.”
Myriam looked at the blank sheet and sighed. She picked up the pen and wrote “1” and put a circle around it. Then she wrote “Children?” Tears filled her eyes and she put down the pen to press them away with her fingers. A gamut of emotions raced across her face as she scribbled on the page. Finally, she pulled into herself and seemed to shrivel in the chair. “I don’t know what to do,” she said softly.
“My best advice at this juncture,” said O’Connor, “is to keep that chin up and think positive thoughts. Being incarcerated isn’t pleasant. I know that. But it’s early in the investigation. I’m bringing in a private investigator tomorrow to work on your behalf. He’s top-notch. And with friends like Mrs. Fletcher—and you have legions of friends and supporters, I’m sure—things will work out for you.” He pulled her paper away, folded it in quarters, and tucked it in his breast pocket.
I forced myself to participate in the conversation. “Myriam, is there anyone you’d like me to call for you? Do you have what you need here? Can I bring you anything? Toiletries? Something to read? I can check with Sheriff Metzger as to what’s allowed.”
She answered each question with a nod—no, yes, no, no, no—as if too exhausted to talk.
There
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